Grudge Match
by Random Phantom
Summary: Someone with a grudge is out killing cops - CI5 needs to find out why, especially as some of their own number could be on the killer's hit list...
1. Chapter 1

London sweltered under the high, midday summer sun, basking in a heat wave that made the air shimmer above the gridlocked traffic. Angry businessmen in shirt-sleeves with loosened ties honked their horns and swore at each other as they vied for space to manoeuvre around the road-works that were the cause of the delays. Amidst it all, traffic cop Graham Morris blew his whistle and gestured for a particularly dopey-looking man to move his car forwards. The stink of fumes was high in the air, giving Graham a pounding headache, and the constant blaring of car horns did not assist.

Graham glanced away from the traffic chaos long enough to check his watch, relieved to note that there was less than hour before the end of his shift, by which time rush hour should be all but over. He could hand over to another officer and head home, where his wife of six months would have some home-made lemonade chilling in the 'fridge and something tasty ready for dinner. Consoled by the thought, Graham raised his hand to stay the advance of a particularly aggressive Mercedes driver. Waving through an old Renault, Graham gestured for the Mercedes driver to come forward.

Suddenly, something hit him in the shoulder, and Graham jerked back from the impact, grunting in surprise. He glanced down in dumb shock at the red stain spreading across the front of his uniform. A second, thudding impact took him in the chest. Graham choked, suddenly unable to draw breath, his lungs leaden and heavy, as the impact sent him sprawling backwards on the road. He heard confused shouting around him, and then a woman started screaming. He was vaguely aware that there must be a problem somewhere and as the nearest officer he should go and check it out… his vision faded, and Graham knew no more.

**CI5**

"A traffic cop," Doyle's voice carried a trace of frustration, "who the bloody hell would want to kill a traffic cop?"

"Maybe a pissed-off driver," Bodie suggested, casting a glance around the mess of traffic still clogging the streets, "any of these guys carrying an Armalite rifle?"

Doyle ignored his partner as he knelt beside the dead cop. Graham Morris, aged 22, left behind a woman widowed after just 6 months of marriage. Several other uniformed officers stood around keeping back nosey pedestrians and ushered on the traffic. They all kept glancing at the body and around the surrounding area; fury and bitterness in their eyes. The loss of one officer stung all officers and there would be no rest while a cop-killer walked the streets.

"From the angle of the entry wound, the bullet came from on high," Doyle commented, getting to his feet, "any guesses?"

"Up there," Bodie pointed immediately, "it's what I'd choose…"

Doyle followed the direction Bodie pointed. Behind the nearby row of shops, a high rise block of flats towered up into the sky. The two CI5 agents surveyed the building for a long moment. The shot need not have come from the roof – it was more likely to have been taken from a window or balcony. The killer was no doubt long-gone, but the building could contain vital evidence – if it was the shooter's hide-out. There seemed no other viable buildings nearby.

"Let's go and check it out," Bodie said, at length, "let's take some uniforms…"

"You, you and you," Doyle pointed, "come with us."

The three men he had picked out nodded grimly. An ambulance had finally made it through the backed-up streets and Graham's body was carefully covered over and removed. A cop was dead, London continued to bake in the heat, and CI5 were on the case.

**CI5**

Bodie climbed the stairs slowly, almost reluctantly. It was hot and dusty inside the block of flats. They'd been frustrated to find that they had to break in to gain entry – it seemed the block was scheduled for demolition as part of an urban renewal project. They had already dismissed the first four floors as being too low to effectively hit a target on the main road. So, they'd started on the fifth floor; Bodie, Doyle and three uniformed cops. Now, Bodie was getting up to the thirteenth floor and was in dire need of a drink – preferably something very cold and definitely alcoholic. His radio transmitter beeped in his pocket and he pulled it out.

"3-7," he said, by way of acknowledgement.

"Bodie," said Doyle's voice, sounding as weary as Bodie felt, "one of the uniforms found a tramp on the eighth floor; claims he didn't see anything but he's being taken in for questioning. I'm going up to the fifteenth floor while the other two take the fourteenth."

"Acknowledged," Bodie nodded, wiping sweat from his eyes, "out."

He dropped the transmitter into his pocket, and stepped onto the landing. The door of the flat immediately to his right stood slightly ajar. Immediately, he drew his gun, and held it up at shoulder height as he leaned against the wall. He carefully pushed the door back, and then threw it back on its hinges, in case anyone was stood behind it. The door rebounded off the wall with a resounding crash, as Bodie leapt through, scanning the corridor quickly. He swept through the tiny flat quickly; the lounge, kitchen and bathroom were all clear of everything including carpets. However, in the bedroom, Bodie found what they were looking for. He reached into his pocket and summoned Doyle on the R/T.

"Thirteenth floor," he reported, "Flat 26. I've found the murder weapon."

"On my way," Doyle replied, crisply.

Bodie crouched down and admired the rifle without touching it. There were two spent cartridges on the floor; if the killer had decided to leave the gun, Bodie supposed it did not matter that the cartridges were left behind as well. The rifle was a black, polished killing machine; Bodie's expert eye noted the length of the barrel and the addition of a telescopic sight; he wondered, privately, if their sniper was a poor shot. It was a very close-range hit for a rifle of this kind and a skilled marksman would not have needed two shots with a rifle this good. Bodie's instinct told him that, somehow, whoever had killed Graham Morris was probably not someone who had done it before. He heard a noise behind him and glanced up as Doyle entered the room, one of the uniformed offers in tow.

"Get onto forensics," Doyle told the man, "and tell them to get up here fast."

The cop nodded, gave the rifle a filthy look, and left the flat. Bodie nodded to his partner as Doyle came in and took a look at the rifle, letting out a low whistle.

"A weapon like this and it took two shots to make the hit?" Doyle mused aloud.

"I know what you mean," Bodie agreed, grimly, "something's not right… I've got a really bad feeling about this."

"It's called 'thirst'," Doyle replied, with a smirk, "Come on; we can leave this one to the Met boys. I'll buy you a drink."

**CI5**

Inside the pub it was hot and stuffy, but relatively quiet. It was a bar favoured by law enforcement and the landlord, Joel Emerson, enjoyed the security that brought with it. The pub was only ten minutes' walk from the station that Graham Morris had called 'base' and word had spread quickly about the young officer's horrific demise. The atmosphere within was quiet; even the civilians who drank there were affected by the despondent mood. Doyle walked up to the bar and leaned on it, clearing his throat.

"Who do you have to sleep with to get some service around here?" he said, in a conspiratorial voice.

Joel turned around from where he'd been polishing up some glasses, a smile spreading slowly across his features.

"Ray Doyle, as I live and breathe!" he exclaimed, keeping his voice low, "Blimey. Heard you were playing with the big boys these days – CI5, isn't it?"

"That's the one," Doyle nodded, "do me a favour, mate – two pints of lager?"

"You got it," Joel started to pull the pints, as his expression grew dark, "you heard about that young copper got killed today? The poor kid – how do you get shot directing traffic, for crying out loud?"

"Did you know him?" Doyle asked, conversationally.

"Graham Morris," Joel nodded, "knew his dad, too – old Johnny Morris. He used to be on the force as well. Died of cancer a couple of years back – the kid was devastated. I always promised his old man I'd look out for him. I did as well – he only met that wife of his in this here pub! Ah, she's a pretty little thing. Such a damn shame…"

"Was there anyone who'd want him dead?" Doyle queried, taking a sip of one of the pints and relishing the coldness of the beer.

"Not that I knew," Joel replied, as Doyle paid up, "you know, Doyle, this is starting to sound like an interrogation. Are you on this case?"

"I might be," Doyle answered, with a grin, "are you going to answer the question or do I have to take you in?"

Joel let out a low laugh, and slung the polishing cloth over one beefy shoulder.

"There was no-one in this world who'd wish harm on that kid," he said, bluntly, "and if you're on this case, Doyle, you promise me you'll catch the bastard that did this."

"We will, Joel," Doyle nodded, picking up the beers, "don't worry, we will."

**CI5**

Bodie accepted the pint that Doyle held out, and drank deeply, savouring the cold, fresh taste. He'd chosen a table near an open window, but with no breeze blowing it made no difference to the sweltering heat both inside and outside the pub.

"Learn anything?" Bodie asked, at length.

"Not really," Doyle replied, casually, "Graham's old man was in the force as well, died a couple of years ago, apparently. No real enemies; he was still doing the small stuff – just a rookie looking to build a career."

"Poor bastard," Bodie agreed, sympathetically.

Bodie knew, as well as anyone, that there were two things the police hated more than anything else; a bent cop and cop killers. He knew, too, that as an ex-copper, Doyle would be feeling the loss as keenly as any of the boys in blue.

"Did you know him?" he asked, eyeing his partner over the top of his pint glass as he took another drink.

"Who: Graham Morris?" Doyle gave a snort of a laugh, "No. He was probably still at school when I left the force. I think I knew his dad – or at least, knew of him. He was a Chief Inspector when he retired, I think."

"You reckon it could maybe have something to do with Mr Morris senior?" Bodie asked, "The sins of the father and all that."

"Could do," Doyle shrugged, "we need to do some digging, mate – pull out some files."

"Great," Bodie said, with a noticeable lack of enthusiasm, "how many cons do you think a Chief Inspector could piss off enough during his career to make them want to kill his son?"

"We need to narrow it down," Doyle replied, taking a mouthful of beer, "Mm, recent releases from prison, parolees, that sort of thing. Someone could be back in town with an axe to grind – they find out Johnny Morris is dead and decide to make a hit on the son instead."

"Could be," Bodie allowed, "it's still a lot of paperwork…"

"Let's make Control do it," Doyle grinned, pulling out his R/T.

Bodie listened as Doyle radioed through his request as he leaned back in his seat. The heat was wearing, and he disgustedly remembered thinking that he had left this sort of sweaty discomfort behind in the Congo. He drank his beer steadily, not wanting to let the cold pint get too warm.

"They're running everything we've got through the computer as we speak," Doyle reported, shoving his R/T back into the pocket of his jeans, "they'll let us know if anything crops up."

"I still don't like it," Bodie shook his head ominously; "something doesn't feel right…"

He paused, uncomfortable.

"Go on," Doyle prodded him.

"It feels… it feels like just before a storm," Bodie admitted, "something's going to break. Something big…"

Doyle glanced at Bodie's dark expression, and nodded. He could feel it too. It was if the hot, heavy weather brought with it a sense of foreboding. Doyle drank deeply, finishing the last of his beer.

"Come on," he said, getting to his feet, "we'd better go and report in…"

Waving goodbye to Joel behind the bar, the two agents left the pub and stepped back out onto the roasting streets.

**CI5**


	2. Chapter 2

Night-time brought no relief from the searing daytime temperatures. Bodie lay on top of the sheets of his bed, clad only in a pair of shorts, the electric fan an annoying background buzz but a welcome breeze in the stuffy bedroom. He was torn between switching it off to try to sleep, or continue lying there in the breeze with the annoying drone in the background. He decided on the latter, and was nonetheless just starting to doze off when the bedside 'phone rang with a shrill cry.

"Shit," Bodie grumbled, rubbing sleep from his eyes as he lifted the receiver.

"Bodie," he mumbled into it.

He listened carefully, and then, in a steady tone, gave his reply.

"Acknowledged, Control – I'm on my way."

Bodie pulled on tan trousers, black trainers and a black tee-shirt. He strapped on his shoulder holster and threw on a lightweight, short-sleeved black shirt to hide the weapon from immediate sight. Grabbing his car keys, he left the flat quickly, leapt into his car, and peeled it away from the curb.

**CI5**

Bodie arrived at the scene – the address given by Control over the 'phone – to find that Doyle was already there, along with George Cowley. Cowley spared Bodie little more than a glance as the dark-haired agent approached.

"Another one," Bodie said, bluntly, "who is he?"

"DCI Jim Weston," Doyle replied, grimly, "CID. The poor bastard didn't stand much of a chance."

Bodie nodded in agreement. They were in an underground car-park beneath a hotel that had been closed down for fumigation. The body of what had once been Jim Weston lay in a pool of blood – glittering in the light of a multitude of torches; a knife lay nearby, smeared in red gore.

"It looks like he was jumped from behind," Bodie noted, kneeling down while being careful to avoid the copious amounts of blood, "his throat's been cut. Most of these wounds were post-mortem…"

Around him, several police officers shifted in varying degrees of revulsion and anger. It was a grim day for the Met, and it promised to be a long shift.

"Two cops in one day," Doyle sighed, "This must be related…"

"You'll need to check," Cowley replied, his tone clear, "I want this scene scoured by forensics, and I want you two on the paper trail. Check every case Weston was working on. Cross check that with the file on young Morris. Check everything!"

"Yes, sir," Bodie replied, his expression dark as he got to his feet.

Cowley turned away as the wail of an ambulance siren heralded the arrival of a coroner to attend a dead cop for the second time that day. Having checked the scene and confirmed that there were no witnesses and little else to be learned from hanging around, Bodie and Doyle headed for their cars and both sped off into the night, leaving a very sorry scene behind them.

**CI5**

The next morning, all of the newspapers were splashed with headlines about the killings of two policemen. Some of the papers speculated that there might be a link but without any evidence it was a flimsy story based on guesswork and concocted stories designed to sell the papers. Doyle and Bodie had spent the night feeding information into the computer and reading through old files brought over in a van from the Met archives. They had little to show from it aside from a five o'clock shadow, red-rimmed eyes and a much depleted jar of instant coffee. They reported to Cowley at 9am promptly.

"Weston wasn't working on any cases," Doyle reported, waving a file and dropping it amongst the many others on Cowley's desk, "he was only two weeks away from retirement and was spending it behind a desk. He was only in the underground car park because that was where he kept his car during the day while he was at the office only five minute's walk away. It looks like someone was waiting for him."

"There are no links between Morris and Weston as yet – not even through Morris senior," Bodie added, "if there is any connection, it's pretty tenuous – they were all three on the force. Morris senior would have been Weston's superior for a while but it doesn't look like they worked on any cases together. Morris junior's arrest record was pretty good given he was a rookie, but it's mainly busts for possession and prostitution; the occasional assault, nothing serious. He had his eyes set on a career with CID, but he just hadn't been around long enough to make any real enemies."

"His dad, on the other hand," Doyle picked up, "had an arrest record that reads like a book. Involved in breaking two or three big crime rings including one about seven years ago involving the import of girls from Asia and Africa to work the sex industry – human trafficking."

"Aye, I think I remember the case," Cowley nodded, slowly, "go on."

"It was his last major operation before he retired," Doyle continued, "he died two years ago from cancer. We checked Weston's records but he wasn't involved in the bust. His only link was to arrest a couple of pimps for assault who were eventually called to give evidence at the trial."

"The guy who took the fall for the whole thing was Harvey Davis," Bodie spoke up, "went down protesting that he'd been framed for the whole thing but he was guilty as sin. He later signed a confession in jail to earn a shorter sentence. He turned queen's evidence on a number of former associates who would have gotten away free if not for him. He also fingered some drug runners and arms dealers which made him unpopular – he got knifed in the prison kitchens about three years ago. He died from the wounds. No surviving relatives or associates we know of who'd carry a grudge this far. The computer's just tracking down the last known whereabouts of all the people Harvey grassed on, along with their nearest and dearest."

"Good," Cowley nodded, glancing through a file, "what about the forensic evidence?"

"The bullets extracted from Morris match the gun we found," Bodie replied, "no surprises there. There were no fingerprints on the gun – our shooter used gloves. One thing our guys did find on it was traces of sawdust."

"Sawdust?" Cowley repeated, glancing up, "the gun was new?"

"Straight from the factory," Bodie nodded, grimly, "part of a batch stolen at source. We matched the serial number to a weapon reported as stolen. A flat-broke employee flogged a batch and tried to hide it in the paperwork. He got caught, but we never found the buyer. Several weapons from the cache had been turning up for the past couple of months… our guy definitely bought this black market, so we know he's got some contacts."

"So have we," Cowley replied, darkly, "get talking to them. Anything else?"

"No fingerprints on the knife that killed Weston," Doyle answered, "it was a bog-standard kitchen knife; nothing unique or identifiable. Coroner's report comments on the attack as being 'controlled frenzy' – a quick slit of the throat, multiple stab wounds inflicted post-mortem."

Cowley's face twisted into a half-scowl as he scan-read the report. He glanced up quickly.

"Why are you two still here?" he demanded, "Get out there and start talking to people. Someone out there knows why two cops are dead and I want to know as well. Get to it!"

Doyle shared a knowing look with Bodie as the two of them mumbled their obedience and left the room quickly.

**CI5**

"Any ideas?" Doyle asked, as they strode casually through the corridors of CI5.

"I've got a pretty good idea of where to start with the rifle," Bodie replied, "there aren't many people in the city who'd have the contacts and the cash to buy and sell a case of Armalite rifles…"

Doyle nodded in agreement as he headed for the lift. Together, they headed down to the underground car park towards Bodie's Capri. As they climbed into the car, the radio inside started beeping and, with an exasperated sigh, Doyle snatched it up.

"4-5," he answered it.

"4-5 this is Control," replied a female voice, "reports coming in of a tip-off on your case. A warehouse at the following address… uniformed officers already there to meet you."

"On our way," Doyle replied crisply.

Control relayed the address, as the Capri peeled out of the car park with a squeal of tyres. Doyle snatched up the A to Z and called out directions as Bodie swerved in and out of traffic. In record time, the Capri pulled into an overgrown yard in the middle of an industrial estate, where a ramshackle wooden warehouse sat wilting in the heat of the day.

"When's this damned heat wave going to break?" Bodie grumbled, getting out of the car, "Bloody hell, it's hot…"

Doyle took off his sunglasses as the two of them stared at the building, assessing it silently. A Ford Escort with police markings sat nearby, empty of occupants.

"I suppose we should go and check it out," Bodie said, at length.

"After you," Doyle gestured.

Bodie stepped forwards, crossing over to the door. He drew his gun, and leaned around the corner. The interior was dark, slightly dank, and much cooler than the sun-soaked yard, albeit musty-smelling. Bodie slipped inside, as Doyle followed. The two of them flitted silently through the shadows cast by stacked up crates and large, unidentifiable machines that were covered with tarpaulins. They searched the building thoroughly but found nothing of interest. More worryingly, there was no sign of the uniformed officers who had apparently arrived before them.

"Must have been a prank," Doyle said, eventually, holstering his gun, disgust evident in his tone, "this is a waste of time."

"Agreed," Bodie nodded, similarly holstering his weapon.

He wandered forward aimlessly, and then raised his voice; "Hello? Anyone there? CI5!"

There was no reply. Bodie glanced over his shoulder at Doyle, who simply shrugged. Together, they walked out of the warehouse and back into the bright, hot sunshine. The Panda car still sat there, engine still and lights off.

"Where the hell could they have gone?" Bodie asked, glancing around.

"We'd better check," Doyle replied.

A quick sweep of the area revealed nothing. Eventually, hot and thirsty, the two agents came back to the yard. The car was still there. Bodie took his R/T from his pocket.

"3-7 to Control; come in."

"Control here, go ahead."

"The tip off was a duff," Bodie growled, "and the two uniforms you sent have disappeared. Can you raise them?"

There was a long moment of silence.

"No response on any frequency," Control reported back, primly, "local depot similarly reports no check in from either officer – request you investigate; over."

"Shit," Doyle said, bluntly, "this is starting to smell like a set up."

"The car?" Bodie raised an eyebrow.

"The car," Doyle concurred.

**CI5**

The two of them slowly crept towards the vehicle, suddenly on their guard. They inspected it from every angle, hunting for any signs of tampering, any wires or other hint that the car may be rigged with an unpleasant surprise. Eventually, Doyle straightened up.

"Anything?" he asked.

"Nothing," Bodie replied, "how about the boot?"

Doyle nodded, and walked around to the back of the car. He gently explored the boot catch with his fingertips, but could not feel anything unusual. Giving the catch a gentle squeeze, he found that the boot was already open. The latch clicked and he froze, but nothing untoward occurred so he slowly eased the boot open.

"Oh, hell," he muttered, "Bodie! We need an ambulance!"

"I'm on it," Bodie confirmed, already pulling out his radio.

Doyle reached into the boot space and quickly untied the gag from around the young police officer's mouth. He was a young man, early twenties, with dark hair and a thin face. There was a trickle of blood from a deep cut to the temple, which had matted his hair and stained the collar of his blue shirt. Doyle gently reached in and lifted the young man out, laying him down on the cobbled yard. The young man stirred, and groaned. Doyle gave his name badge a quick glance.

"Harrison?" he called, "Come on, mate, wake up."

The young officer, Harrison, groaned again, and forced his eyes open. Doyle spared him a sympathetic smile.

"You're going to be fine," he promised, "I'm Doyle, he's Bodie. We're with CI5. Who did this to you?"

"Didn't see him," Harrison groaned, raising one hand to his head, "he jumped me from behind pretty much as soon as I got out the car… where's Lincoln?"

"Lincoln?" Doyle repeated; the name was vaguely familiar…

"Alan Lincoln," Harrison replied, "he's… he's my partner?"

"We haven't seen him," Bodie replied, grimly, also crouching down next to the stunned officer, "there's an ambulance on the way. Can you tell us anything?"

"Ah…" Harrison's face screwed up with effort, "We got a call through on the radio about a possible lead on the guy who shot Graham Morris. Lincoln knew Morris's dad, and we were the closest unit, so we took the call. We always patrol around near here… I can't tell you anything useful, though… I don't remember much…"

He trailed off and shrugged apologetically.

"You've told us enough," Doyle assured him, "Will you be okay here while we take a look around?"

"Sure," Harrison nodded, as Doyle helped him to sit up and lean against the car, "thanks."

Bodie and Doyle walked slowly away until they were out of earshot of the young cop.

"What do you make of it?" Doyle asked, slowly.

"I don't like it," Bodie replied, "too much of a coincidence. Whoever made that call knew these two would be in the area – whoever it was wanted Jim Lincoln to attend the scene. Knocked out young Harrison and then – what?"

"We need to find Lincoln," Doyle said, grimly, "our guy could still be nearby – he couldn't get far with a uniformed cop as a hostage…"

He trailed off, staring across the yard. Bodie followed his partner's gaze, and found that he was staring blankly at some large, rusty-looking metal drums. Almost in a trance, Doyle began to walk across the yard, and Bodie followed, already dreading what they might find. Doyle reached the vats first and examined them. Most were badly rusted or dented, but some were still fairly serviceable. Bodie found a crowbar, casually resting across the top of one of the drums. He picked it up, weighing it carefully in his hand, before he selected a drum at random. With some effort, sweating in the heat of the day, he levered off the lid. It rose with a creak of protest, before clattering loudly to the floor. The vat was empty.

"Try this one," Doyle pointed, "there's fresh scratches in the paintwork around the rim."

Bodie crossed over to the drum Doyle had indicated. He braced himself with the crowbar, and then pushed down with all of his considerable strength. The lid popped off, making both men jump back to avoid being hit by it as it crashed to the cobbled floor. Slowly, almost hesitantly, they leaned forwards and peered into the drum. The contents were grim.

"Bloody hell," Bodie groaned, "not another one."

Doyle said nothing, staring down at the sad corpse of Alan Lincoln, apparently shot in the forehead and then stuffed into the drum and abandoned. In his head, several vague thoughts slowly began to come together…In the distance, they heard the siren of the ambulance they'd sent for to attend Harrison. Bodie and Doyle shared a grim look.

"Are you going to break it to him or shall I?" Bodie asked.

Doyle sighed.

"I'll do it."

**CI5**


	3. Chapter 3

Young Harrison had not taken the news of his partner's demise well, and was taken to hospital to be treated for shock and concussion. Within minutes, the yard had been cordoned off and surrounded by a number of other police cars. There were uniforms everywhere, as well as forensic investigators and dog handlers with baying hounds on tight leashes. Through the chaos, George Cowley strode into the midst of the scene, to find Bodie and Doyle stood looking down at a uniformed body as the coroner zipped it into a body bag and carted it away. They both glanced up as Cowley approached.

"Report," he snapped at them.

Bodie quickly recounted their arrival at the warehouse and what they had found.

"He was dead before we got here," he concluded, "nothing we could have done, sir."

Cowley made a non-committal noise in response.

"What was his name?"

"Alan Lincoln," Doyle replied, distantly, "you know, I'm sure I recognise him…"

"Where from?" Cowley demanded, "Think, Doyle, think!"

"I'm trying!" Doyle shot back, as his forehead creased in a frown of concentration, "Damn it…"

"Graham Morris," Bodie spoke up, "Jim Weston, and Alan Lincoln - three cops, all dead within two days. What the hell's going on?"

"That's what you two are supposed to be finding out!" Cowley snapped back, "What are you standing around here for? Get out there and find some answers!"

**CI5**

Back in the Capri, Bodie started the engine and realised that he didn't really have much of an idea where to go.

"Do you want to carry on chasing the rifle?" he asked, "Or do we go back to the paper trail?"

"I doubt whoever sold the gun would tell us much, even if we could find them," Doyle replied, absently, "No… back to the files. There's a connection here, I'm sure of it."

Groaning at the thought of reading through more paperwork, Bodie obediently slewed the car around, and sped out into traffic. Unbeknownst to them, from a dingy bed-sit opposite the warehouse, a shadowy figure behind a curtain watched them go, and was almost pleased by what he'd seen…

**CI5**

Bodie had long since given up reading the files. It was getting late in the day, the office was uncomfortably hot and stuffy, and the 'fridge was empty of cold drinks. Eventually, mumbling an excuse, he got up from the armchair he'd been lounging in, and offered to go to the local shop for refreshments. Doyle muttered an acknowledgement, absorbed in the paperwork. The answer was here, he just knew it… almost without thinking, he reached for Johnny Morris's service record. It was exemplary – he'd started out at just eighteen years old and shot up through the ranks; starting with a simple city beat, done a little work with CID and transferred to the drugs squad… Doyle's heart skipped a beat as, all of a sudden, the pieces fell into place. He leapt to his feet, about to charge off after Bodie, and then, with second thoughts, sat down slowly. It was always best to check… he reached for another file. Now that he knew what he was looking for, the work was easy…

Doyle did not hear Bodie re-enter, and jumped as a cold can of coke was deposited next to him.

"Steady on," Bodie smirked at him, "Found anything?"

"Yeah," Doyle leaned back in his chair, as he opened the coke, "old Johnny Morris was on the drugs squad before he retired three years ago due to ill health. He died a year later. His son, Graham, wanted to follow in his father's footsteps. Four years ago, Alan Lincoln and Jim Weston were partners on the drug squad. They worked under the supervision of Johnny Morris. There's our connection."

"A case the three of them worked on?" Bodie guessed.

"I think so," Doyle nodded, "there's one in particular that stands out from four years ago – Kenny Price and Bill Blake. They ran a little import and export business off the south docks; they looked small time but they were bringing in massive amounts of cocaine from Brazil and flogging it through a limited number of suppliers. It was a real tight ship. We knew it was coming in but we didn't know where from; nobody could get close enough to the organisation to find out. Several of the dealers got nicked but even they didn't know who they were working for. We had a feeling it was Blake and Price but we didn't have enough evidence."

"So what happened?" Bodie asked; his interest piqued.

Doyle picked up a file from the desk and tossed it to his partner, who caught it easily.

"All the main details are in there," Doyle replied, "basically, a couple of guys went in undercover. They worked for nearly six months before they were trusted enough to help move a shipment from the docks to the distributors. Two weeks later, there was enough evidence to blow the whole thing wide open. Both Price and Blake were arrested along with their three ships' captains, several lackeys, two or three heavies and most of the distributors. It was a big break for the drugs squad and the press had a field day. Price and Blake both went down for ten years apiece. I've chased the prison records. Bill Blake is dead – had a heart attack nearly a year ago. But get this – Kenny Price was released three months ago for good behaviour. He skipped parole and hasn't been seen since."

"Do you want me to put out an APB?" Bodie asked, reaching for his radio.

"Already done," Doyle responded, a little smugly, "and I've briefed Cowley over the 'phone. Betty's going to take over the files. We're going after Kenny Price."

"Then I'm driving."

Bodie gulped back the last of his coke, as the two of them quickly left the room.

**CI5**

The Capri accelerated through the streets. Although it was late in the evening, there was still enough summer time daylight to see by. The evening was hot and humid; a thick, muggy feeling pervaded the air.

"There's a storm coming," Bodie said, ominously, "I can feel it."

"Yeah," Doyle agreed, quietly.

They drove in silence for a while, and then Bodie suddenly slammed his hand down on the steering wheel, making Doyle jump slightly.

"What did you mean, 'we'?" Bodie demanded, shooting a quick glance at his partner.

"Hey?" Doyle said, surprised.

"Back then, when you were telling me about Blake and Price, you kept saying 'we'. As in, 'we knew it was coming in' and 'we didn't have enough evidence'," Bodie gave Doyle an accusing stare, "you worked this case as well, didn't you?"

Doyle sighed, and glanced out of the window.

"Yes," he replied, at last, "I did. I didn't recognise Weston at all and I barely knew Lincoln. They were two of the arresting officers. Morris must have taken the fall for his old man, who organised the whole operation."

"So how were you involved?" Bodie demanded, as he guided the Capri around a corner towards Kenny Price's last known address.

Bodie slowed the car down slightly as they entered a residential street, where a group of children were playing football in the road. They scattered like startled sheep as the Capri eased down the road, with cars parked either side. He could sense Doyle's hesitation to answer the question.

"You worked it undercover," he guessed, knowing instinctively that he was right, "you were one of the guys who brought down the ring, weren't you?"

"Yeah," Doyle nodded, peering out of the window at the houses, "there! That's the address."

Bodie double-parked the Capri and applied the handbrake. Doyle moved to get out of the car, but Bodie grabbed his sleeve and pulled him back.

"Not so fast," he said, "come on, tell me more. If we find Kenny Price, is he going to recognise you?"

"I don't know," Doyle shrugged, "four years is a long time."

"A long time spent in jail," Bodie shot back, "with nothing else to think about but the guys who put you away. Come on, Doyle! Weston and Lincoln are both dead and the bastard couldn't get Morris so he took it out in his son. You could be next!"

"Oh, you think I hadn't thought of that?" Doyle retorted, "Yes, he might recognise me. But I'd definitely know him anywhere. Now are you coming or what?"

Bodie paused, and then nodded. They got out of the car, slamming the doors and assessing the house.

"Does Cowley know?" Bodie asked, as they approached the building.

"Probably, by now," Doyle admitted, "it's in the files. Come on – you take the back and I'll go in the front."

Bodie disappeared down an alleyway that ran between the house and its neighbour as Doyle slowly sauntered up to the front door. It was an old house, with paint peeling from the door and window frames. A 'For Sale' board was nailed to the porch that surrounded the door, giving the name and number of a local estate agent. Doyle climbed the stone steps up to the porch, and casually leaned over the railings to glance down at the basement area. It was an old, wealthy area that had fallen into vague disrepair; stagnated, in a way. The houses were large and loomed over a street, too close together for any real privacy, but, as Doyle reflected, it was amazing what went on behind closed doors. His radio beeped in his pocket and he took it out.

"3-7. I'm in position," Bodie's voice reported.

"Acknowledged," Doyle murmured.

He slid the radio back into his pocket and knocked on the door. He couldn't hear any movement from within, but any sound would have been drowned out by the happy shouts of the children playing behind him. He knocked again, and then took out his radio.

"4-5," he muttered, "no sign of life. I'm picking the lock."

"Received," Bodie replied.

Doyle took a pick from his pocket and worked on the lock for a few moments. The door then opened with a click, and he eased it back on its hinges, peering into the gloomy interior. He slipped inside and closed the door as he raised the radio again.

"I'm in," he reported.

He pocketed the radio without waiting for Bodie's reply, and drew his gun. He swept through the downstairs rooms and found nothing; no sign of life, not even a stick of furniture. There was a long corridor with stairs leading to the second floor. The first door on the right led to an empty living room. The cupboard under the stairs was also empty, as was the kitchen. Doyle opened the back door, letting Bodie in.

"Downstairs is clean," he reported, as his partner drew his Browning, "second floor?"

"After you," Bodie gestured.

Working tag-team style, the two agents made their way up to the second floor. Like the ground floor, it was empty. With a sigh, Bodie holstered his gun.

"Nothing," he grunted.

"Didn't expect much after four years," Doyle replied.

Suddenly, both of them froze, as the front door slammed open. Bodie whipped out his gun again, as voices drifted up from the corridor. He jerked his head towards the stairs, and Doyle stepped forwards. He crept down a few steps and then jumped for the landing dropping to a crouch as Bodie came down from behind him...

**CI5**


	4. Chapter 4

"Don't move!" Doyle snapped.

The three people in the hallway looked up in amazement. At the sight of the two men aiming guns at them, the woman let out a small cry and then drew breath to scream.

"Don't! We're with the police!" Doyle ordered, and held up his hands.

Eyes wide with fright, the woman held on to one of the two men, who wrapped an arm around her protectively.

"Who are you?" Bodie asked, slowly, coming down the stairs.

"I'm Frank Tailor," one of the suited men replied, albeit nervously, "I'm… I'm an estate agent. This is Mr and Mrs Goodling… they've… they've come to view the house…"

Doyle jogged down the stairs and opened the front door.

"Re-arrange the viewing," he suggested, ushering out the terrified couple, "you – stay here."

He turned on the nervous estate agent as he slammed the front door, and flashed his ID card.

"I'm Doyle, he's Bodie," he said, by way of introduction, "and we're interested in the house."

"To buy or to let?" Frank Tailor replied, almost automatically.

"If we decide we want it, we'll impound it," Bodie smiled his dark smile, "now, the previous owner… Kenny Price."

Tailor paused, confusion written all over his face. Doyle prodcued his warrant card and waved it at him again, slower this time. Understanding finally dawned on Tailor.

"Tell us about Price," he ordered.

"Ugh," Tailor waved a hand dismissively, "a real knock on the value of this place. People so much as get a sniff that a drug dealer lived here and all of a sudden it's 'well it's lovely but it's not what we're looking for' and they're off like a shot. I mean, it was, what, five, six years ago…?"

"Four," Doyle interrupted, "now; who put this place on the market?"

"The mortgage company, of course," Tailor replied, a little primly, "it's kind of hard to keep up on the repayments when you're in jail and all your assets have been frozen. The mortgage company repossessed and put the place up for sale. Talk about destroying the equity… drug dealer indeed, in a nice street like this…"

"What about the furniture?" Doyle cut in, already tired of listening to the estate agent's ramblings.

"Who knows?" Tailor replied, flippantly, "probably taken away by bailiffs. Surely you guys would know more about that sort of thing than me?"

"We're into things slightly more important than debt collection," Bodie replied, darkly, fixing the young man with a glower, "are you telling me a place like this has been on the market for four years?"

"On and off," Tailor admitted, "it's had a couple of owners over the years. The longest one lasted six months."

"What happened?" Doyle asked, curiously, leaning against the wall.

"All sorts of things," Tailor replied, "Rumours grew up around the area that the place is cursed. We can't get a local buyer and the kids keep breaking in for dares – place gets vandalised so often…"

"We're going to want the names and forwarding addresses of all the previous owners," Bodie interrupted, "one of our lads will be over to your office to collect it within the hour so you'd better have it ready for them. Go!"

With slight jump, Tailor opened the front door and was gone. Bodie and Doyle watched him go, before they left the house and got back into the car. Doyle picked the radio up and called Control.

"Yeah," he said, upon hearing the acknowledgement, "we need a couple of agents to collect some information from an estate agent… you'd better send Hogan and Webster, it's right up their street… thanks Control; 4-5 out."

He dropped the radio, and glanced across at Bodie, who was grinning and tapping the steering wheel.

"What now?" Doyle asked.

"Time for you to go and get shouted at?" Bodie suggested.

"Time for me to go and get shouted at," Doyle confirmed.

Surprisingly, Cowley had better things to do than shout at Doyle for omitting to mention he'd been involved in the four-year-old drugs bust.

"Another cop's turned up dead," he announced, as Bodie and Doyle sauntered into his office, "Andrew Davis. Ring any bells?"

Bodie was shaking his head, however; Doyle's face seemed to have drained of all colour. Cowley was giving him a hard stare.

"Well, Doyle?"

Doyle drew in a deep, steadying breath.

"He was my partner," he replied, at last, in a neutral tone, "we were the two who went undercover for nearly a year to bust open Price and Blake's operation. We were there when they got busted – Andy took a bullet in the arm – shattered the bone above the elbow. They had to amputate. He was medically discharged just afterwards… went to live in Kent, didn't he?"

"His wife found him less than an hour ago," Cowley replied, "he was beaten and hung from a tree in his own back garden."

Doyle raised a hand to his face and covered his eyes briefly, before scrubbing back his hair.

"Do you want us to go down and check it out?" he asked, eventually.

"It's a bit late for that," Cowley snapped, "now – I want the names of everyone else involved in this bust and I want them now!"

"It'll be in the file," Doyle shot back, with a flash of malice, "I can't bloody remember everyone who was involved! The case took up half the damned squad for six months, over four years ago!"

Cowley picked up a file and threw it at them. Bodie caught it deftly and opened it. There was a list of names printed on the top sheet.

"Lucky for you Betty already amassed the names," Cowley said, "what you need to do is go through that list. Find out who is alive, where they are, and decide who the priority targets will be. You, Doyle, are already marked as a priority target. By rights I should be putting you in protective custody."

"Now wait just a minute…" Doyle began.

"Leave him to me, sir," Bodie grinned, cutting in quickly, "I'll look after him."

"I'm sure you will," Cowley replied, dryly, "now go on; get out. I want that list back within the hour!"

**CI5**

Alanis Hogan leaned back in her chair, watching as the estate agent, Frank Tailor, chattered inanely to her partner, Tony Webster, as he gathered the files the two CI5 agents had been sent to collect. Hogan was a tall woman with dark hair and a strong, wiry build. Despite the heat she wore black jeans and a grey tee-shirt. Her gun was nestled in a holster in the small of her back, hidden by the loose folds of her shirt. Tony Webster was also tall and dark haired; the two of them could have been brother and sister. However, where Hogan was pale and wiry, Webster was well-tanned and muscular, a top athlete who enjoyed running and wrestling, amongst many other sports. Eventually, Tailor ceased his babbling long enough for Hogan and Webster to make good their escape with the files on the previous owners of the property so recently investigated by Bodie and Doyle.

"Thank heavens for that," Webster commented, as they got into Hogan's black Porsche, "I thought he was never going to shut up."

"Tell me about it," Hogan agreed, revving up the engine, "Crikey. I could murder a pint."

"That's what I like about you, Hogan – you're so lady-like."

"Tell that to my fist," Hogan replied, waving her hand at him, "ah, forget it. This bloody heat's killing me."

Webster flipped absently through one of the files.

"Why do you suppose Cowley wants this info?" he asked, absently, "doesn't look like much."

"Jax reckons it's something to do with the dead cops," Hogan replied, expertly steering the car through traffic as she referred to another CI5 agent, "something about a house some bloke used to live in… apparently they nicked this bloke – drug runner or something. I don't know – don't particularly care."

"You're just pissed off because Cowley pulled us off that bullion raid," Webster responded, dropping the file back onto his lap, "don't worry, little sister – we'll be back on their trail soon."

Hogan growled something under her breath.

"You're probably right, big brother," she replied, with her customary response to Webster's nick-name for her, "I am a little peeved. That case could have made our careers with CI5… still; maybe if we get in on this bust we can start making a name for ourselves."

"Yeah," Webster agreed, "what say we ditch these files and go grab ourselves some alky-hole?"

"Sounds like a plan," Hogan grinned.

The idle chatter continued as Hogan wove the Porsche through traffic back towards the CI5 headquarters. Neither of them noticed, some distance behind them, a motorbike following them discreetly.

**CI5**

Doyle's head was reeling with the shock and confusion of what Cowley had told them. Still, he forced himself to concentrate on the list he'd been given. They had taken over one of the smaller offices; Bodie had immediately closed the curtains against the bright, hot summer sun, and in the dingy light that seeped through the material, he sat in a chair between Doyle and the window, watching his partner guardedly. Doyle ignored the scrutiny, studying the list.

"To my knowledge, six of these guys are dead," he said, at last, capping his pen and dropping it on the desk, "not including those recently deceased. There are seventeen names here, not including young Graham Morris. This was before his time."

"So what are we left with?" Bodie asked, leaning back in his chair.

"Nine dead," Doyle replied, grimly, "Morris senior of natural causes; two murdered by our mysterious killer; four killed in the line of duty over the past four years; one killed in a car accident and one suicide."

"Are you sure it was suicide?" Bodie queried.

"Positive. It was a big enquiry, result was clear, no suspicion of foul play," Doyle replied, checking his notes, "now, the remaining eight… there's myself, of course… and the seven others. Two were scarcely involved – they were the desk sergeants who did most of the paperwork after the arrests. I doubt they're high priority, but they should be warned to maybe take the family on holiday for a couple of weeks…?"

"Agreed," Bodie nodded, knowing they could not spare the manpower to guard all of the targets, "Next?"

"All five of them were arresting officers," Doyle shrugged, "all of them will be targets… and all of them are still in active service."

"Where are they?" Bodie wanted to know.

Doyle squinted at the list, rubbing tiredly at his eyes. The room was hot and stuffy and the background whirring of the desk fan did little to cool the muggy air.

"Let's see…" he murmured, "Daniel Moore's a Detective Inspector who transferred out to Birmingham. Harry Shore's transferred to Nottingham, and Michael Gibbs is a Sergeant in Liverpool. Our hit man would have to go a long way to get those guys… although the other two are more interesting. Steven Walker, a Detective Inspector, works out of the same depot as Graham Morris…"

"And the other?" Bodie prompted, as Doyle trailed off.

Doyle glanced up.

"CI5's very own Anthony Webster."

**CI5**


	5. Chapter 5

"Here," Webster held out the pint glass, "your drink; dear lady."

"Thanks, and screw you," Hogan replied, accepting the drink, "ah, beer. I've been wanting this all day."

"Tell me about it," Webster replied, "I like the sun but, bloody hell; this heat's intolerable."

Hogan nodded in silent agreement as she took a drink. The beer was cold and refreshing, and she savoured it. The two agents had just finished their shift and were looking forward to sharing a couple of drinks before heading their separate ways. Despite rumour around CI5 to the contrary, Webster had a steady girlfriend and Hogan was entirely focussed on her career. Suddenly, Webster's R/T began to beep. He swore, and took it out of his pocket.

"7-6," he acknowledged, wearily, "go ahead."

"7-6, this is 4-5," came a familiar voice, "I've got bad news for you, mate. Remember Kenny Price?"

Webster paused, frowning, and then nodded, slowly, to Hogan.

"Yeah," he replied, into the transmitted, "yeah, I remember him. He went away for a long time…"

"Well, he's out. Three months ago, he skipped parole and hasn't been seen since. He's the only link between the dead cops."

"And that means he links to me," Webster added, grimly, as Hogan glanced up in surprise.

"And me, mate," Doyle replied, "listen, Cowley wants you and Hogan back here a.s.a.p."

"We'll be fifteen minutes," Webster replied, all trace of amusement gone from his tone.

Hogan looked down at her pint and sighed.

"Do you think if I down this I'll still be able to drive?" she asked, plaintively.

"Drink it," Webster replied, picking up his own drink, "it might actually improve your driving!"

*CI5*

Bodie slouched in a chair while Doyle leaned against the wall. Behind his desk, Cowley peered through his glasses at a number of files. The room was silent, save for the ticking of the clock and the occasional shuffle of papers as Cowley worked. Eventually, he looked up; though it was still light outside, it was rapidly approaching 8pm.

"Where the hell are they?" Cowley snapped, breaking the silence.

Doyle shrugged.

"Webster said they'd be fifteen minutes," he replied, checking his watch, "that was about forty minutes ago."

"Well, what are you two doing sitting around here?" Cowley demanded, "Get out there and find them!"

Spurred into action, Bodie rose from the chair and followed Doyle out of the door. As they walked to the car, Doyle tried, without success, to raise Webster or Hogan over the radio.

"Something's happened," he said, grimly, "I don't like it."

"Stay calm," Bodie responded, slowly, "they could be anywhere…"

"Exactly," Doyle said, sounding frustrated, "so how the bloody hell are we supposed to find them?"

"Easy," Bodie replied, with a grin, as he got into the driver's seat of his Capri, "We start with the pub they drink at."

*CI5*

The night was hot and muggy, the atmosphere oppressive in the extreme. The sun hung low in the sky, setting slowly, as if reluctant to leave the sky. Bodie tore through the late evening traffic and screeched to a halt outside a rather run-down looking pub.

"This is the place," he announced, somewhat unnecessarily, as they climbed out of the car.

Doyle was more preoccupied with keeping a wary eye out as they entered the pub. The air was thick and heavy with heat and smoke, although the pub was nearly empty. Bodie sauntered up to the bar and smiled appreciatively at the pretty, blonde barmaid who turned to serve him. She, in turn, eyed him and returned the smile.

"What can I get for you?" she purred, leaning on the bar to give him a good view of her ample cleavage.

Bodie's smile widened.

"I'm looking for someone," he replied.

"Well, you've found me," she grinned.

"So I have," Bodie smirked, and gestured to Doyle, "but we need to know where two of our friends are and we think they were in here earlier."

"Well, what do they look like?" the barmaid asked, straightening up and unconsciously pulling her top up a bit.

"They're both tall," Doyle replied, "dark haired. Tony Webster and Alanis Hogan. Do you know them?"

"Oh, aye," the barmaid nodded, "those two are regulars. I always thought they were brother and sister. Sorry, my lovers – they left about half an hour ago."

"Okay, never mind," Bodie nodded, "thanks, love."

*CI5*

They headed back outside, though the air was no cooler out than within the sweaty pub. Doyle walked a few steps down the path and stopped, his arms folded.

"Isn't that Hogan's car?" he asked, jerking his head towards the vehicle in question.

Bodie joined him, and the two of them walked up to the black Porsche. Bodie stood back and admired it as Doyle tried the doors.

"Locked," he noted.

"This is a nice car," Bodie commented, "but where's the driver?"

"Maybe they'd had a couple of drinks and decided to take the bus," Doyle suggested, doing a walk around the car and examining every detail.

"Hogan? No chance," Bodie replied, "she'll drive in any state. She wouldn't leave this baby just sitting here."

Doyle nodded in silent agreement as he came to a halt at the back of the car. He tried to open the boot, but it, too, was locked.

"Bodie," he called, "have you got a crowbar in your car?"

"Yeah," Bodie replied, and then realised what his partner was considering, "Ray! You can't just… not to a car like this…!"

"I know, mate. It'll hurt me too," Doyle winced, "but we need to get this boot open… just in case…"

Bodie sighed, and fetched the crowbar. He held it out to Doyle, who accepted it. Levering the end under the trunk flap, he forced it down with all his strength. Suddenly, the boot flew open and Doyle staggered backwards, falling against the car parked behind him. Luckily, the alarm did not sound, as he straightened up and peered into the boot.

"Empty," he sighed, "Hogan's going to kill me for that."

"Not if you offer to fix it," Bodie pointed out, "come on. They can't have gone far."

Doyle was about to point out just how much distance could be covered in half an hour when a loud bang sent both of them diving for the pavement. Taking shelter behind the Porsche, both had their guns in hand and were madly scanning the area.

"A car backfiring?" Bodie whispered, eventually.

"I don't think so," Doyle replied, a little uncertainly.

He raised his head slowly, and suddenly the window of the Porsche exploded, showering him liberally with glass. He dropped back down with a yelp, shaking the fragments from his hair as Bodie risked a quick look. This time, rifle fire strafed the vehicle liberally – two of the tyres burst with loud hisses, as bullets banged into the metal bodywork and took out the windscreens and remaining windows. The attack stopped as suddenly as it had begun.

"Where's it coming from?" Doyle hissed, trying to peer out from around the car.

"Warehouse, over the road," Bodie answered, a little breathlessly, "fourth floor, I reckon."

"Right," Doyle nodded, "so… on three?"

Bodie nodded back; "One…"

"Two…"

"Three!"

*CI5*

At the chorused shout, the two of them leapt from behind the car and dashed forwards. They came to a halt behind a high wall surrounding the industrial area. Doyle reached over to rattle the gate and the chain fell to the floor, neatly cut through. He gave Bodie a resigned look, and Bodie nodded encouragingly. Doyle took a deep breath, and barged through the gate, throwing it open. Keeping his gun aimed high, he dived for cover behind the first available shelter – a small shed, obviously some sort of security guard's hut, now locked and empty for the night. The area remained ominously silent as Bodie entered the yard at a run and skidded to a halt, dropping to a crouch behind a pile of bricks and rubble stacked near the gate. The sky was darkening; grey clouds rolled in and the air was oppressively still. In the distance, a low rumble could have been a distant truck, but Bodie sensed in the atmosphere the approach of a storm. Suddenly, from nowhere, came the sound of echoing laughter. Bodie and Doyle shared a worried look from their respective hiding places. The owner of such a laugh could not quite be in his correct mindset.

"Doyle!" the voice called, mockingly, "Raymond Doyle, you old bastard! Remember me?"

"Is that you, Kenny?" Doyle shouted back, cautiously staying hidden.

"Of course it's me!" screamed the voice, "You'd know me anywhere! It was your fault I got put away!"

"And I'm going to put you away again!" Doyle promised, "For life! No one will parole a cop killer! Come on out, Kenny!"

Kenny Price, invisible and menacing, let forth another peal of screaming laughter.

"You're a fool, Doyle!" he taunted, from high above, "I'm not coming out. I've got two hostages here! You want them back? You come and get them. I promise I won't shoot… yet. I want to see the look on your face when you die, Doyle. And don't even think about calling for back-up because if you're not up here on the fifth floor with that partner of yours in five minutes I'm going to chuck one of these guys out of a window, do you hear me?"

"Yeah, I hear you!" called Doyle, who could see Bodie already summoning backup, "We're on our way up. Don't shoot!"

The walls rang with that awful, deranged laughter, as Doyle slowly emerged from behind the guard house. He glanced at Bodie, and, on an unspoken signal, the two of them ran flat-out towards the warehouse, not stopping until they reached the door.

"Fifth floor in five minutes," Doyle panted, breathlessly, "we haven't got a lot of time."

"What's the plan?" Bodie asked, quickly, glancing around, "Cowley's got all available units on the way here, but he's got the advantage."

"Not unless we can even the odds," Doyle replied, thinking quickly, "Place like this, there's got to be room to move…"

He gestured quickly, and the two of them entered the building, Doyle aiming high, Bodie crouching to cover the lower angles. Satisfied they were not yet walking into an ambush, they proceeded quickly through the ground floor, and located the stairs. The evening was beginning to darken as it approached 9pm, through there was enough gloomy light to see by. They worked their way up the stairs in the standard tag team style – one taking the lead, then covering the other's advance, until, hot, sweaty and breathless, they reached the fifth floor. They could hear Kenny Price clearly now, still alternatively laughing and raging to himself.

"He's out of his mind," Bodie said, bemused.

"He's dangerous," Doyle replied, darkly, "just remember; he's killed at least four cops and he's got two CI5 agents hostage. That takes some skill."

"Agreed," Bodie nodded, "I've seen the way those two can fight…"

"Doyle!" Kenny screamed, suddenly, "Doyle! Where the hell are you? Doyle….!"

Doyle moved to go forward but Bodie grabbed his arm.

"Are you crazy?" he hissed, "He'll shoot you as soon as look at you!"

"No; he won't," Doyle said, with more confidence than he felt, "remember, I brought down his whole organisation. He wants to see me squirm before he kills me. Stay here. Watch my back."

"You're as mad as he is!" Bodie objected.

"We haven't got time for this!" Doyle whispered, urgently, "While we're out here debating, he's got Webster and Hogan in there… I'm going in."

*CI5*


	6. Chapter 6

Ignoring any further protest from Bodie, Doyle leaned on the door and pushed it open. He was surprised to find that it opened into a wide open space – there was virtually nothing in the way of cover. All the boxes and equipment had been shoved to the far end of the room, stacked haphazardly against the far wall. Kenny had clearly decided to remove any chance of Doyle taking cover and he suddenly felt horribly exposed. This was nothing, however, to the anger and revulsion that threatened to choke him. Kenny Price stood in the middle of the room. Either side of him, he'd thrown ropes over the overhead beams. To his right, Tony Webster was standing, hanging from the beam, the rope tied cruelly tight around his wrists. His head was bowed and Doyle could not tell if he was breathing. Hogan hung similarly to Kenny's left, head down.

"I'm here, Kenny," Doyle said, in a low voice, "now let them go…"

Kenny laughed, hysterically. It was the most chilling sound Doyle had ever heard.

"Let them go?" he repeated, "Let…them…go?"

Suddenly, without warning, Kenny swung around and drove his fist into Webster's stomach. The taller man choked, unable to protect himself or evade the blow. Doyle snapped his gun up, but Kenny was quicker, stepping behind Webster and raising a knife to the younger man's throat as Webster fought for breath. Doyle could now see that both Webster and Hogan bore the marks of a severe beating. Kenny appeared unharmed, and Doyle wondered just how this maniac had managed to take down two fully trained CI5 operatives with what looked like relative ease. Hogan was clawing at the ropes above her head; Doyle could see, even from where he stood, that the flesh had been rubbed raw around her wrists from her struggles.

"Drop the gun, Doyle," Kenny said, in a low, menacing voice.

Doyle hesitated, and then complied. He bent down and placed the weapon on the floor, never taking his eyes off Kenny as he straightened back up again. Kenny stayed where he was, behind Webster, that wickedly sharp hunting knife still pressed against the agent's exposed throat.

"Now – take three steps forwards…" Kenny ordered.

For barely a second, Doyle's eyes flicked away from Kenny's face to scan the floor. Seeing no signs of a trap that could be triggered by his movement, he slowly walked forward.

"That's far enough," Kenny said, his voice now sounding frighteningly calm.

At the moment, Kenny was fully in control of the situation, and that was not good for the three agents in the room. Doyle hoped that Bodie was watching his back and calling for reinforcements. As for him, he had to do something to take back some control.

"It's me you want, Kenny," he said, quietly, "why do you need them?"

Kenny glared back at him, as if gauging his response.

"This bastard was just as involved in bringing me down as you were," he snarled, at last, giving Webster a rough shake and eliciting a moan of pain, "he'll pay – just like the others. He'll pay for what he did to me."

"Him?" Doyle put a trace of scorn in his voice, "He was just an arresting officer, following orders! And what about Graham Morris? He wasn't involved at all! It was before his time!"

"His old man," spat Kenny, "he paid for his old dad's involvement. I'd still got money, hidden away in places you guys didn't dream of looking – it's cost me, oh yes, it's cost me – but I bought weapons. Information. I bought blood and vengeance to the streets of London!"

Kenny's voice was building up to a screech and Doyle was very painfully aware of the knife that was still held up against Tony Webster's throat.

"What about me, Kenny?" Doyle challenged him, pointing at Webster and Hogan; "What have you got in mind for me? Webster – he was just there for the arrest – and as for her, she wasn't involved at all – she was never even a cop!"

"You'll get your turn," Kenny promised, lowering the knife at last, much to Doyle's relief, "Don't be so impatient to die, Doyle – I'm going to make it nice and slow for you…"

A flash of light suddenly lit up the room, making everyone jump, quickly followed by a loud clap of thunder. The rain, so long anticipated as a break in the heat-wave, suddenly began, rattling on the windows. Doyle edged a step forwards, hoping to make his move. However, without warning, Kenny moved. Doyle saw the dim glint of dull light on a brightly polished blade, and heard Webster's choked cry of pain as the blade found its mark. The young agent's back arched in agony, before he drew in a shuddering gasp and collapsed. The ropes around his wrists took the strain and he hung there, limp, unmoving.

"Kenny, you bastard!"

*CI5*

Doyle lunged. He crashed into Kenny, sending the knife skittering across the warehouse floor. Doyle was strong and well trained; while Kenny was more muscular and fought with manic desperation. He punched, kicked, and clawed at Doyle, snarling curses all the time, while Doyle fought for purchase, trying to subdue his flailing target. Kenny kicked out, catching him in the face and sending him sprawling; Doyle recovered quickly, in time to land a hefty punch across the larger man's jaw as he recklessly threw himself forwards. They fell back, away from each other, and got to their feet, as the door burst open and Bodie entered the room, gun drawn. A single shot was fired; Kenny Price let out a gurgling wail, mortally wounded. As if in a desperate attempt to escape, he ran for the window and leapt at it. Glass shattered outwards and Kenny screamed as he fell. Doyle suppressed a wince at the dull thump of the body hitting the ground.

"You okay?" Bodie asked, glancing at his partner.

"Yeah – but Hogan and Webster aren't."

Doyle glanced at the knife on the floor and decided against picking up the blood-stained weapon. He took a small flick-knife from his pocket and set to work on the ropes that bound Hogan. Bodie stepped forwards quickly as Hogan, only semi-conscious, collapsed into his arms. Doyle then sawed through the ropes that bound Webster. Dropping his knife back into his pocket, Doyle gently lowered Webster to the floor. The agent was white as a sheet, and, as Doyle checked for a pulse, he knew it was too late.

"I should've shot Price when I had the chance," Doyle murmured, bitterly.

Any further self-recrimination was cut off when a slightly damp-looking George Cowley strode into the room, flanked by other CI5 operatives; an equally rain-soaked Jax and Murphy. Outside, blue flashing lights lit up the dark sky, and the wail of an ambulance siren sounded and suddenly cut off, heralding its arrival in the stormy night. As far as Doyle was concerned, it was too little, too late.

*CI5*

The next morning, the air was fresh and clean, cooler and more comfortable than for the past few days. The sky was blue with white clouds scudding along in a gentle breeze. Bodie and Doyle sat in the break room of CI5 HQ; both had showered, shaved and rested from the night's activities. Still, there was an air of despondency – a fellow agent had been killed, and Tony Webster had been popular around the department. The two agents were now drinking tea and filling in any number of forms.

"Bloody paperwork," Bodie grunted, as he added his short signature to another report, "there; done."

"Just a tick," Doyle mumbled.

Bodie watched as his partner ticked off a few more boxes, scribbled a comment and scrawled his signature across the bottom.

"Right," he nodded, "let's pass these on to Cowley and get back out to some real work."

"Agreed!"

They picked up the files and carried them off to Cowley's office. When he entered, he gave them an appraising stare.

"What have you got for me?" he asked.

"As if you don't know," Bodie replied, "the reports of last night, sir."

Cowley gave Bodie a brief glower, and indicated a corner of his desk for them to leave the reports.

"Any news from the hospital, sir?" Doyle asked, softly.

Cowley's expression softened, albeit only slightly.

"Hogan's going to be fine," he assured them, "she suffered a broken wrist, a couple of broken ribs, concussion and multiple bruises. Apparently Price planted a canister of gas in her car – he didn't have to go anywhere near them to take both her and Webster out. He just activated the canister by remote and the anaesthetic took them both out before they could even get out of the car."

"I wondered how he'd managed that," Bodie commented, "Hogan fights like a demon when her back's up. She can be a real bitch, that one."

The comment was made with an edge of respect, so Cowley let it slide.

"Even so, she'll be off duty for a while," he said, "as for Webster… the funeral will be in three days' time. Hogan says she was unconscious and didn't see what happened, but from the sounds of it there was nothing you could have done, Doyle."

Bodie expected a sharp retort, but Doyle just shook his head resignedly.

"I think different," he said, a little sadly.

"No use beating yourself up, laddie," Cowley responded, "now; do yourselves and Webster a favour. Get out there and find the bastards who sold weapons and information to Price!"

*CI5*

Three days later, a small crowd stood around outside the crematorium. The service had been short and non-denominational; very few people had attended outside of CI5. Tony Webster had no family to speak of and all of his friends were either CI5 or cops. Hogan was there, her face bruised, and her left arm sheathed in a plaster cast and a sling. Her manner was silent and withdrawn, but Bodie did not miss the way she kept gazing across at him, and especially at Doyle. Putting it down to grief, he decided to give her some space. Loosening his black tie slightly, he crossed over to Doyle. He was almost amused to see his partner had already abandoned his tie and loosened the collar of his shirt; Doyle hated formality. He met Bodie's gaze for one moment, and Bodie could easily see the self-recrimination in Doyle's expression.

"Come on," he said, forcing a lighter note into his tone, "I need a drink and you need the company."

Doyle hesitated, and then, the smallest of smiles touched his lips, and he allowed Bodie to lead him to the car. Behind them, Hogan watched them go, and, silently, she mourned her partner's death. Glancing back at the crematorium, she watched as the smoke drifted lazily from the chimney, and she drew in a deep, steadying breath.

"Goodbye, big brother," she murmured, "I'll miss you."

Silently, she added to herself:

_I'll avenge you…_


End file.
